


Can you carry it with no regrets

by Squidbittles



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Animal Traits, Bird/Human Hybrids, Cloaca, Cloaca Sex, Feelings, Growing Up Together, M/M, albatross AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidbittles/pseuds/Squidbittles
Summary: -or- five times Sidney was ready to nest and one time he actually did.





	Can you carry it with no regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maur/gifts).



> For my wonderful (and so so so talented) recipient, Maur - I hope that you enjoy this strange romp into what if albatrosses. I tried to stick within your guidelines, even if I strayed a bit - you had so many amazing prompts that I was paralyzed with choices. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Snick for letting me hash this out and pointing out when I needed to get my shit together.

 

 

  1. **Malkin**



 

His mom pulls him aside one morning in June, because no matter how early he gets up, Trina always manages to be in the kitchen first with her mug of coffee and the morning paper. It was that way when he was 5, and it’s comforting now at 18, after his first NHL season, after months of acclimating to a new colony.

 

“I’m worried,” she says in the way that he thinks only moms can manage. 

 

“About?” he ask carefully, because it feels like a trap, like she’s trying to get him to confess that he’s sad or upset or heartbroken by the way the season ended. 

 

She gives him a frank look. “You’re spending a lot of time alone. I thought you’d be jumping at the chance to spend more time with your friends now that the season’s over.”

 

“It’s - I am,” he protests, but it sounds weak even to him. Judging from Trina’s face, she agrees. 

 

“Sidney,” she starts.

 

“It’s just weird.” Sid makes a few circuits around the kitchen, fiddling with the cabinets until he finally gets a mug down and pours his own cup of coffee. She sips her coffee, content to wait him out.

 

“You’re using your left hand more,” she finally says when he leaves the silence too long. 

 

Sid’s hand clenches reflexively on his mug. He hadn’t even noticed. “See, I’m already - I don’t fit in there, and I don’t fit in here anymore, either. It’s not that I don’t want to hang out or whatever, it’s just that everyone’s starting to focus on their rituals and think about courting and  _ nesting _ and I’m just...not there yet. I don’t want to start something here when I’m going to be in Pittsburgh for...for my career, I hope.”

 

“Oh, baby.”

 

“I’m fine,” he insists, and lets himself be pulled into a careful hug. She smells like the same perfume she’s always worn, and it’s safe and  _ home _ to him. He knew hockey was going to require sacrifices, that it would take him away from his colony, that he wouldn’t start the rituals when all of his friends did, that that kind of gratification would be delayed in favor of the thrill of winning. But it still sucks sometimes. 

 

“Of course you are. There’s nothing wrong with picking up new rituals. You’ll always have a home here, with us. Cole Harbour is your birthing ground and nothing’s going to take that out of your blood. But you’re allowed to make Pittsburgh your colony, too.”

 

He inhales, and she squeezes him tight and careful, one hand automatically preening the fine hairs at the nap of his neck. “I think I’m going to buy a house,” Sid adds suddenly. 

 

Trina pulls away and looks up at him. “Alright, then.” She goes back to her paper and her coffee. “You want me to call up Susan for you? She’s always had a keen eye for good houses.” 

 

Something loosens in Sid’s chest and he nods. “That’d be great, Mom, thanks.” 

 

He spends his 19th birthday in his new home, inviting over friends and family so that he can play the host for the first time. Even knowing that he’s about to leave for Pittsburgh, for the first time all summer, Sid feels settled. When he wakes up the next morning, it’s to the knowledge that he’s still got to clean up the kitchen, and the devastating news from Brisson that Malkin had signed another contract with Metallurg.

 

***

 

Later that week, Sid settles back into his place within Mario’s nest. He thinks about his new house back in Cole Harbour, thinks about how it had made him feel, about the weight of responsibility he feels in the void left by Mario’s retirement, and wonders if he should push to get his own place here, too. He retains a real estate agent, even looks at a few houses, but nothing she sends him makes him  _ want _ to leave. 

 

He thinks about Malkin signing his contract in Magnitogorsk, about what that means for a young player, especially a homegrown player with his level of skill and talent. About how he’s staying in his home colony, what that would have meant for  _ Sid _ if he hadn’t wanted to play hockey in the NHL. Something a lot like resignation settles under his breastbone and Sidney sets it aside. Either Malkin will stay or he won’t, and there’s nothing that Sid can do about it except think about what might have been. 

 

After practice, he goes out with his team to bars and clubs, usually full of other juveniles. It’s good team building and good practice for reacquainting himself with the peculiarities of Pittsburgh’s language. He doesn’t usually join in on the dancing - he’s not ready to think about courting and mating rituals yet, even if his friends are, but he’ll let the other guys try to bully him into it anyway.

 

He’s not old enough to drink in the states, but that doesn’t stop some of the guys from trying to sneakily ply him with drinks, as much to include him in the group as to convince him to get out on the dance floor. Talbo and Army are the worst of the culprits, willing to buy a tray of rainbow shots just to make sure that Sid will drink half of them.

 

It’s Flower who produces the tray this time. 

 

“Guys - “ Sid protests when while Gary and Rex look very deliberately in the other direction.

 

“Siiiiid,” Talbo mimics, slipping into the booth next to him and slinging an arm over his shoulders.

 

“I really shouldn’t,” he says, reaching for a shot the color of Mountain Dew. He knocks it back to raucous cheers from his teammates. After that, it’s only a matter of time before he lets them pull him onto the crowded dance floor, his awkward, stilted attempts at the ritualistic dancing causing his teammates to laugh and dance with him. He’s not ready to court yet, but it’s nice to feel like he’s a part of something bigger than himself, bigger even than the team. 

 

He likes the way Army correcting the positioning of his feet feels, likes how Bugsy will bob his head until Sid and Flower mimic him correctly, even though Flower’s been courting his girlfriend since they were 15. Sid gets lost in the feel of his team around him and stops worrying about not  _ needing _ to learn the rituals and just enjoys the fun of it all.

 

He lays in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and idly touching his dick and his cloaca, aimlessly horny. He’s too drunk to sleep and it feels natural for his thoughts to drift to Malkin, about what he’d be like in person, on the same team - about how his skating would look on Mellon ice, long legs eating up the distance from end to end. It’s easy to extrapolate how he might be in a club, how he’d move those long limbs amid a sea of people, how he would reject every offer to dance until the crowds would part in the face of his increasingly provocative dancing, how he’d look at Sid. Sid would fall into his orbit, his own courting ritual flawless and perfectly in sync with Malkin’s, his throat relaxing and cackling lewdly - 

 

Sid’s breathing picks up, his dick suddenly  _ very _ interested. He rubs his fingers over the head, gathering up beads of precum, then feathers them over the swollen lips of his cloaca. He alternates his touches, hips jerking helplessly as he imagines how Malkin would spread himself open under Sidney, or how he’d feel, long body pressing Sid into the mattress - pinned and waiting to be given what he aches for.

 

He comes embarrassinly fast and passes out before he can think about cleaning up his mess.

 

***

 

He gets a call from Brisson less than a week after his birthday.

 

“I thought you might want to know - Malkin’s disappeared from Finland.”

 

Sid’s breath catches in his throat. “Disappeared?” 

 

“I can’t say more than that, but hopefully we should have more information in the next few days.”

 

“Does Mario know?” 

 

“Of course.” Sid can hear the smile in Brisson’s voice. “I love you, kid, but you weren’t my first phone call.”

 

Sid wants to ask  _ why _ Brisson called him at all - if his hockey crush is more obvious than he thought - but he bites his tongue, grateful for the information. “Disappeared” doesn’t mean that Malkin is on his way to Pittsburgh, or even on his way to the US - it could be anything and Sid tries not to get ahead of himself. But there’s a frisson of excitement curling into his bones now that he can’t deny.

 

Malkin’s flight from the KHL is the worst kept secret in the locker room, and Sid tries not to add any extra fuel to the fire, but his excitement must be catching. Guys keep pouring into town and that air of anticipation builds. Sid skates and he works out and he very casually asks Gonch questions about Russia, about playing for the KHL. At night, he hangs out with the other juveniles in for camp and sometimes he even  dances and he thinks that he might be getting better at it. 

 

Everything comes to a head when Mario calls him downstairs one afternoon.

 

“He’s on his way,” Mario says, cracking open the fridge. 

 

Sid’s breath does that weird stutter in his chest again. He doesn’t have to ask who Mario means. “They found him?”

 

Mario offers him a Gatorade from the fridge, and Sid take it, uncapping the top. “He made it to L.A. this morning. We’re working on getting him to Pittsburgh before the end of the week.” 

 

It’s all Sid can do not to start bouncing on his toes right in the middle of the kitchen. His phone buzzes a moment later and it’s a picture from Brisson of a tall, lanky man skating alone. He can just make out the edge of the Kings logo on the ice. 

 

That electric feeling is back in his bones again, and it carries him through the rest of the week until the doorbell rings and Sid’s the first to it, opening the door to Gonch and two other men he doesn’t recognize on the stoop. Behind them is Malkin, towering over everyone but Gonch even though his shoulders are hunched - with exhaustion or trepidation, Sid can’t tell.

 

He looks up and meets Sid’s gaze, and Sid sucks in a breath and has to resist the urge to clack his teeth. Instead, he holds out his hand like a civilized person. “Sidney,” he says. “It’s great to meet you.”

 

Malkin swallows heavily and clasps his hand firmly. “Evgeni,” he replies, voice deep and a little hoarse, like he’s been out all night cawing which is -  _ god _ \- such a rude, salacious thing to think about a man Sid’s just met. 

 

“Welcome to Pittsburgh,” Sid says instead.

 

Malkin -  _ Evgeni _ \- says something in Russian, and next to him, Gonch rolls his eyes but looks fond as he translates. “He says that you’re going to do great things together.” 

 

*** 

 

They clinch a playoff berth and head to their regular club to celebrate. There’s so many people, and the noise and laughter and music thrums through Sid’s veins. The veterans intersperse themselves amongst the juveniles with good humor. He watches Geno and Jordy and Talbo and even Flower and together they make a hooting, clacking, noisy mess of limbs. They crash together, giggling and laughing. Sidney follows the long spread of Geno’s arms, the way he tosses his head and the throaty warble of his voice. Sid sits at the booth and watches and  _ wants _ and tries to remember why he keeps telling himself that he can’t have this.

 

Colby brings him his first beer. Rex brings him his second. Then there’s a rotating line of shots that he loses track of. Gonch sets the last one down in front of him, a vibrant purple color.

 

“Our Art Ross winner,” he grins and the Penguins within earshot cheer, a chorus of piercing cries that say  _ he’s ours _ . Sid’s heart feels full of his team, his Pittsburgh colony, and he lets go, lets himself be pulled onto the dance floor, dozens of gams forming and dispersing and forming again as the juveniles of Pittsburgh practice their rituals. 

 

Around him, people pair up, break off, they touch and kiss and Sidney mostly tries to stick with at least one of his teammates. He and Talbo swing their arms and dip their heads and it’s stupid and  _ fun _ . Talbo darts in to press a sloppy wet kiss on his cheek, and then on Flower’s before he breaks off with a girl and Jordy swings in, voice joining with the cacophony of the club’s music. Sid feels clumsy and out of sorts, like he does every time he gets coerced onto the dance floor, but he doesn’t care with the alcohol warming his blood, and he must have said it out loud because Jordy laughs and grabs his hands and swings him around. 

 

“So what if you feel dumb - we’re all out here feeling it together!” Jordy cackles wildly and lets go and Sid’s free falling into another gam of people he doesn’t know. He has a moment of panic before a familiar pair of arms tug him closer into the circle. Geno’s arms are the longest when he spreads them and he makes the best throaty cries, and Sid - he feels so much already, even though his ritual hasn’t been perfected, even though he doesn’t have a nest to offer Geno. They can barely communicate verbally with the three languages between them - but Sid’s brave with alcohol and flushed with victory and they’ll always share the kind of language that doesn’t need words. He catches Geno’s eye and throws his head back, baring his neck in the universal gesture he’s seen bonded pairs make countless times. 

 

It’s intimate. It’s the most vulnerable, the clearest gesture he can think of to declare his intent, and Sid can feel Geno’s breath on his throat a moment later, the soft clack of his teeth against sensitive skin and Sid’s heart swells.

 

And then Geno laughs -  _ giggles _ \- and pulls away, distracted by someone else’s mating dance, and Sid’s eyes slip shut, his stomach churning. He lowers his chin and desperately hopes that no one from the team saw him, that no one sees the way rejection pales his skin. If they do - he’ll just - he was drunk.  _ Juveniles _ do stupid shit all the time when they’re drunk, after all, and that’s exactly what he feels like.

 

He doesn’t look for Geno. He doesn’t listen for his distinctive cry over the music or try to pinpoint his wingspan rising above everyone else’s as he moves from gam to gam, dancing. Sid swallows. 

 

He heads back to the table to grab his jacket and runs into Gonch who’s taking his turn manning their personal detritus. For a moment, he actually considers just leaving the jacket. Someone else will either grab it for him or he’ll just buy another one. But Gonch’s hand wraps around his wrist before he can make his escape, and Sid looks at him reflexively. 

 

“It’s not how we do, in Russia,” he says, voice kind and eyes full of the kind of pity that Sid had been dreading. 

 

He’s not sure what “it” means, but he can extrapolate. Sid laughs a little - keeps it light and breezy. “It’s fine, it was nothing.” Gonch frowns a little. “I was just playing around, you know?”

 

“I didn’t take you for the type to play around,” he says.

 

Sid shrugs. “I’m drunk. I’ve got to go, I’ve got a cab waiting,” he adds. They both know it’s a lie, but Gonch releases him. 

 

“Don’t read too much into it,” he says, and Sid plasters a smile on his face. “Have a good night, Sidney. We’re proud of you.”

 

Sid nods and makes his escape.

 

***

 

He wakes up in the morning back in his bed, skull throbbing and feeling like a squirrel crawled into his mouth and died. He briefly entertains the idea that he blacked out last night, that it was all a dream, but no. His memories are crystal clear. 

 

He stares at the ceiling for a while and wallows like the teenager he is. In the light of day, haze of booze and sting of rejection faded, Gonch’s words are less pitying. Sid was drunk - they all were. He should have recognized the looseness in Geno’s limbs, the glazed over look in his eyes, but he didn’t and there’s nothing he can do about it now. His gesture was hormonal and alcohol driven, and even if they were both sober, it would have been too much, too soon, too young. 

 

They start the playoffs in four days and he almost shot himself in the foot by trying to nest with someone he’d only spent a season with - an act that would have affected not just himself but Geno and their whole team as well.

 

Sid exhales and drags himself out of bed. He won’t read too much into it because there’s nothing to read into.

 

***

 

They get five games and one win and Sidney considers it a sign. He was right - he doesn’t need to mate or nest right now. He  _ needs _ to focus on his hockey, not perfecting a ritual that he doesn’t need. Just making the playoffs isn’t enough. They need to  _ win _ . 

 

The team says goodbye after cleanout day with a cookout at the Lemieux house. There’s not a cloud in sight and it’s that perfect combination of sunny warmth and cool breeze, and Sid tries to leave the season in the past and enjoy it.

 

“Next year,” Geno says, pulling Sid in for a hug as they sit on the patio together.

 

Sid goes, buries his face in Geno’s shirt for a half-second and thinks about how glad he is that he didn’t torpedo this with drunken hijinks. “Next year.”

  
  


  1. **Because it’s the Cup**



 

They say it’s the lightest 35 pounds that you’ll ever lift. 

 

It’s true. 

 

Sid’s knee is on fire, but he can’t feel anything through the shot they gave him halfway through the third period and the adrenaline and the feeling of the Stanley Cup in his hands. He lifts it over his head and throws his head back and  _ screeches _ \- his pure joy rings through Joe Louis, and a second later his team is around him, echoing his call back at him.

 

The locker room is filled with manic singing and cackling and  _ so much _ booze, and it’s better than any club Sid’s been to, surrounded by his team, their mates and their kids,  _ his _ colony. He doesn’t get blackout drunk, but it’s probably pretty close. There are definitely a few fuzzy moments when he’s not entirely sure how he gets from one side of the locker room to the other. He swings Flower around in a hideously uncoordinated dance, kisses Talbo on both cheeks  _ and  _ the forehead. Tanger and Duper throw him over  _ both _ their shoulders somehow and bounce him around until he’s genuinely worried he might puke, but he’s laughing too hard to care. 

 

Gonch and Billy and Syks and Brooksie and Kuni all feed him beer and champagne and laugh at him and with him in equal measure as the party swings from the locker room onto the plane.

 

Through it all, Geno is there, screeching in his face, one hand on the Conn Smythe, one hand on Sid’s shoulder, waist, elbow, spine - Sid honks back and for the first time in his life feels like someone understands him completely.

 

Joy seeps into his pores, through his bones, suffusing his body and he thinks,  _ We’re going to do this over and over again _ .

  
  


  1. **Housing Crisis**



 

Sid perches on the retaining wall by the pool, beer in one hand and balancing a plate full of professionally grilled burgers and artisanal mac and cheese and watches. Five years he’s been in Pittsburgh - five years of building his own colony out of his teammates. 

 

Vero’s half perched on Flower’s lap, half on the deck chair they commandeered. There’re the Gonchars with Natalie at their feet, looking longingly at the pool; Victoria’s passed out on Sergei’s shoulder while Ksenia takes the break to shovel food in her mouth. Tanger and Cath talk with Duper and Carol-Lynne and Kuni and Maureen - the Dupuis and Kunitz kids have talked the Lemieux kids into getting out their ball hockey equipment.

 

Sid hasn’t let himself really sit and think about his future like that - about mating and nesting and kids - it’s always been a dream he had for later, for after hockey. But he’s got a Cup now and gold. He’s allowed to want more. He imagines hosting his own gatherings, cookouts where he makes everyone bring a dish and dinners where his teammates - this family he’s built - share a table and laugh and drink, and maybe someone beside him, helping him man the grill or pulling the corks on wine they pulled out to serve.

 

His lake house waits for him back home, the place he bought to nest in, to anchor his drifting heart back home, but so much of his life, of his future, is tied to Pittsburgh.

 

He almost doesn’t notice when Geno plops down beside him on the wall, his own plate in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. 

 

“You lost?” he asks, holding out the beers for Sid to snag one. He hadn’t even noticed his was empty. 

 

“Lost in thought,” Sid supplies. “A little,” he admits, taking a swig. “Just thinking about a lot of stuff.”

 

“What about? Vacation? Canada? Maybe find you snow in June,” Geno teases before taking an enormous bite of his burger.

 

“Oh ha ha. Fuck you, I like going on vacation.”

 

Geno raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You come with me - Miami, Moscow?”

 

And the thing is, Sid is...he’s tempted. He still wants Geno, thinks about that night in the club like a dirty little fantasy, but he’s worked so hard to do what’s best for them all and keep Geno in the box in his heart labeled  _ team, family _ , where he belongs. 

 

Sid grins crookedly. “Actually, I was thinking about buying a house,” he says, instead of  _ yes _ .

 

“You already have?” 

 

“Back home,” he agrees. Sid looks up at the main house and picks out the windows of his attic guest suite with the ease of long practice. “I think it’s time that I finally get out of the nest, eh?”

 

Geno’s jaw goes slack, and if it weren’t hilarious, he’d be a little offended. “You sure? Buy house here in Pittsburgh?”

 

Sid exhales. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna. I’m ready.”

 

Geno gives him a grin that seems inordinately pleased. “ _ Good _ . Time for you to land and settle. It’s fun. You’re love buy home, I’m know.”

 

***

 

Sid buys a house before he leaves for the summer - it’s out in Sewickley and it’s big and sprawling. It reminds him of Mario’s house and Geno’s huge lot, and it’s got all the right number of rooms, so he buys it. But Geno is  _ wrong _ , and he does not love home ownership one bit, which he spends most of the summer bitching about to Geno, who takes it with surprisingly good grace.

 

“Reno, Sid!” he suggests gleefully. “Is  _ Property Virgins _ !”

 

“It is  _ not _ .”

 

Sid spends the summer fishing and working out and in between it all, he’s on the phone with contractors and architects, skyping as needed and trying to ignore the increasingly ridiculous suggestions and pictures of outlandish renos that Geno sends him. He’s not putting in pink marble  _ anywhere _ , thank you.

 

Geno calls first him when he gets back in town. He wonders if it has something to do with Sergei leaving and signing in Ottawa, but he’s pretty sure he’d never get a straight answer out of Geno about it, so he doesn’t bother, just lets Geno bully his way into his apartment and out to Pirates games.

 

“Take me to the house,” he demands one afternoon after a kind of lackluster lunch of baked chicken, rice, and a summer salad that Sid is actually a little proud of.

 

“It’s not finished,” he protests, but he’s a little excited that Geno asked. It’s been a week or so since he last visited. “I don’t want to get in the way of the contractors,” he adds weakly.

 

“You pay them; they deal with it,” Geno says decisively, dangling Sid’s car keys in front of him. “I’m buy you ice cream afterwards,” he wheedles, sticking his tongue out, and Sid rolls his eyes and pretends like that isn’t an effective bribe.

 

They cross one of the bridges, Sid can’t remember which, and take the backroads up to Sewickley, windows rolled down. The construction site is a mess, just like Sid had known it would be, but Geno cheerfully bullies his way into a pair of construction helmets for the two of them and the foreman walks them through the blueprints and what’s already been done, and it’s nice. 

 

Among all the frustration of the construction and the time it takes to remodel, it reminds Sid why he’s doing this in the first place. He can stare at the skeleton of his house and say,  _ this is going to be the kitchen, and this is the entertainment room and this is the office _ . It makes it a little more concrete than just replacing electrical and outdated plumbing. It starts to feel like a place he could nest.

 

Geno only looks a little smug afterwards, when Sid’s got a single scoop of Rocky Road and Geno’s demolishing a cherry milkshake. Sid’s too busy smiling to care. 

 

***

 

He can’t watch games with the concussion, can’t do much of anything at all that isn’t puke and sleep, but sometimes he’ll lay on the couch with his eyes closed and listen to the radio broadcast - which is what he’s doing when Geno goes down against Buffalo.

 

His heart is in his throat because it sounds bad, and he wishes with a perverse sense of curiosity that he could have seen the hit, seen what had happened for himself.  He digs out his phone from the couch cushions, where it’s been hidden for at least two days, and blinks through the stabbing pain of the screen’s light. Finding Geno’s contact is muscle memory, and he carefully taps out:

 

_ Sorry. Call me if you need me. _

 

He hits send before he can second guess himself. It’s - it’s not like he can actually do anything. He can’t drive Geno anywhere if he’s re-injured his knee, he can’t cook or stand or play video games to keep Geno from getting bored. He can’t  _ do _ anything...but he can do this at least. He can sit in the dark with his phone to his ear if Geno needs to vent. It’s not much, but he thinks it has to count for something.

 

A few days later, there’s a careful knock on his bedroom door. It’s a good day, and he doesn’t have the curtains open, but he’s got a couple of lamps on, so he’s going to call it a win. He’s thinking about going out into the living room and lying down on the couch out there for a change in scenery. 

 

“Come in,” he says, expecting one of the kids to be checking on him. He’s not expecting Geno to push the door open carefully.

 

“Sid,” he says, and he looks miserable and stubborn on his crutches, baggy sweatpants twisted underneath the leg brace bracketing his right knee.

 

“Geno, hey!” He can’t help the smile that splits his face.

 

Geno’s answering smile is less bright, but no less genuine. “You say call, but I’m think better to stay off phone. Mario says it’s good today?” He taps his temple with a long finger.

 

“Yeah, it’s...it’s a good day today. Better because you’re here.” It’s maybe too much, but Sid doesn’t care. They stare at each other for a long moment before Sid realizes that he’s just...standing in his goddamn doorway and Geno’s on crutches and that’s stupid and rude in equal measure. “I can’t really watch TV or anything, but we could go sit on the couch if you want?”

 

Geno nods. “It’s okay. I’m bring stuff,” he says cryptically and crutches his way back towards the living room. There are Gatorade bottles and snacks already on the coffee table, and Sid waits for Geno to pick his side of the couch, then helps him arrange his leg up on the sectional, carefully shoving a pillow under it. Then, just to be a shit, he packs in all the rest of the throw pillows around Geno’s leg as obnoxiously as possible.

 

“Comfy?” he asks, grinning. 

 

Geno scowls a little bit, but Sid can read his face as easily as ever. “So nice, Sid,” he says. “Like spa day.” He nestles a little further into the couch and waves a hand imperiously. “Give me Gatorade - and book out of bag? I’m stuck, can’t go anywhere.”

 

Sid laughs and passes over a bottle of the blue, then looks around until he finds where Geno had thrown his backpack and moves it into easy reach for him, plopping the book he’d stashed in there onto G’s lap. Then, he looks for a place to sit down himself. Which - shit - there are no more cushions that aren’t piled around Geno, whose turn it is to grin obnoxiously. 

 

He pats the space next to him. “I’m let you share since you so nice,” he says magnanimously. And Sid, well. He’d protest, but he’s weak and never going to pass up a chance to snuggle up on the couch with his - with Geno. He sits a little gingerly, but Geno raises one long arm expectantly and Sid allows himself to scoot in a little closer, until he’s tucked up under Geno’s arm. 

 

It feels - fuck, it feels really nice and he wants to relax into the sensation, but he can’t help the tension running through his shoulders and neck, like he’s going to overstep his bounds again, like he’s missing a cue that he never learned how to read correctly.

 

“Shh,” Geno’s quiet voice breaks through, and Sid sucks in a breath. “Think so loud,  _ I’m _ hear you. Relax.” He shifts around a little, finding a comfortable angle for draping his arm over Sid’s shoulder and across his chest, and Sid exhales and feels the muscles in his neck loosen. “Good. Good to relax. I’m read now - Russian book okay?”

 

And Sid can do that - he can lay here and let Geno cuddle him and close his eyes while his friend reads a book, and it’s nice and good and just what he needs. “Alright, G.” 

 

“Good. I’m start,” he rumbles and then starts reading out loud, which is not what Sid was expecting at all. The Russian is soothing against his ears. He can only pick out one word in a hundred probably, so he can’t focus on the words. Instead, he lets the sound wash over him, Geno’s voice low and surprisingly soothing against his back.

 

***

 

Geno has surgery and rehabs and emails Sid stupid pictures because Sid refuses to upgrade his phone. The new season starts and Sid gets back on the ice, skates and works out and starts to feel like  _ maybe _ \- he comes back at the end of November and doesn’t even make it to Christmas before all his concussion symptoms come rushing back.

 

His house is finished. 

 

He sells it as soon as he can. It feels cursed, like failure, but so does everything else.

  
  


  1. **Locked out**



 

The next time he buys a house, he finds an occupied lot that he likes, so close that he can walk to the Lemieux’s, and he tears the whole damn thing down and starts from scratch. He knows exactly what he wants this time.

 

By July, he’s got most of a house built and a 12 year contract that tells him he’s going to be a Penguin for as long as he wants. He watches Flower and Vero get hitched and no one gets traded and he gets trashed and cries and he’s really glad that all he manages to do is drunk text Geno. 

 

_ Everyone’s getting married, g _

 

__ _ Tell Flower i’m happy for him and Vero too good for him _

 

__ _ I did like, five tiems already _

 

__ _ Good. u drunk? _

 

__ _ Noooooo im all alone _

 

__ _ Drink water sid. I call you so early and wake you up _

 

__ _ Ha ha you fucker _

 

And then the CBA runs out. 

 

Sidney politely bullies his way into every meeting he can. He moves into his house as Bettman cancels October’s games and the NHL and the NHLPA demand radio silence between players and owners. He waves to Mario when they drive past each other’s houses, but they don’t talk.

 

He slowly fills his new home up with furniture - a new TV, a coffee table that reminds him of the one up in his lake house. A couch big enough that even Geno could stretch all the way out on it. He invites Army and his family over first, once he thinks he has enough furniture for everyone to sit on.

 

“Damn, Creature.” 

 

Melissa punches him on the arm and sets her bowl of pasta salad down on the counter. “It looks great, Sidney,” she says. Cruise totters along past her and straight to the overstuffed couch. “Cruise approved.”

 

“Solid choice,” Army adds, and gives Sid a hug. Sid laughs and returns it. It’s good to have him back in town, even if the lockout is the reason. 

 

Sid grills out burgers and hot dogs, and they break in the patio furniture.

 

“Grass is coming in nice,” Colby says, sipping his beer.

 

“I’m thinking about replacing the fence? Maybe putting in something a little higher?”

 

“I’d put one around the pool, you know, for when you’ve got kids.” 

 

“Hm. You’re just saying that because you want me to watch Cruise,” he teases, but it’s a good point. Even if he’s not having kids of his own right away, it’d be a good feature to have.

 

After that, it’s like the floodgates open. Guys are in and out of Pittsburgh, set adrift by the lockout, and when Sid’s not meeting with Fehr, he’s hosting practices in town, and inviting people over for lunch and dinner whenever he can.

 

He loves to grill, whatever he can get his hands on, or whatever people bring over for him to throw on. Guys come over after practice, sometimes on their own, sometimes with their families. He gets better at cooking things that  _ aren’t _ grilled, slowly but surely. A new set of fencing goes up along his property line and around the pool. 

 

He gets an iPhone and endures the  _ endless _ shit he gets from his team when he send a pic of the ship’s wheel he mounts in his entertainment room. He laughs with them, then texts Flower for ideas on the best way to prank them. The wheel stays where it is, and he goes on Amazon and adds a couple of nautically themed pillows to complete the look. 

 

Geno sends him an indecipherable string of emojis and ten dollar signs, and Sid figures that means he approves, so he keeps sending Geno pictures whenever he adds something new. Geno sends him thumbs up and pics of the Gonchar girls and the team on the bus and occasionally pics of his parents and cute dogs he sees on the street.

 

Duper snailmails him pictures that his kids have drawn, and he thinks that Duper might be doing it to troll him, but he goes out and buys a pack of fridge magnets and puts them up immediately, then snaps a pic and texts him the results.

 

He buys an egg chair for his office because he thinks it looks cool, then immediately returns it when he watches Nealer try to sit in it. The decorative geode that Brooksie brought over as a housewarming gift goes on the mantle in the family room. Pieces come and pieces go, and Sidney’s not sure just what his compass is for decorating, but everyday it feels a little more right.

 

His parents bring Taylor down for real Thanksgiving, along with the knickknacks he’s had squirreled away in their basement for years that he  _ hadn’t _ moved over to the lake house. He has a guest suite ready for them, and a room for Taylor already picked out, and they go out together and pick up paint for Taylor’s room and furniture for both areas.

 

Sid’s the first person in the kitchen in the mornings and when Trina comes in for her coffee, he pulls down a mug for her with his left hand and slides it over, as natural as can be. She smiles and pats his arm and something in Sid settles.

 

  1. **Cup Magic**



 

The Cup feels even lighter the second time he lifts it. He throws his head back and screeches. He’s 21 again, he’s ageless and infinite. Around him, his team answers his call, and Sid skates the Cup to Dales, whose eyes are already wet, who holds it over his head for a mother who’s watching from a hospital room. 

 

Duper skates out onto the ice in full gear, and Sid feels the tears prickling his eyes and he clings to him for a long moment. Flower and Tanger are wrapped up in each other, smiling and laughing, but subdued in comparison to the raucousness around them.

 

Sid wants to join them, but he’s being pulled in every which direction, and then there’s Geno, bright and grinning and jumping on everyone like an overgrown puppy. He’s one of the first guys to head to the locker room after pictures are done, and Sid wants to join him, to have just a minute where it’s the two of them, but he waits.

 

Sid’s the last person to head to the locker room; his face hurts from all the smiling, but he can’t seem to stop, and he’s blasted with the cacophony of his team yelling and champagne bottles popping as he walks in, Cup held high over his head. Everything starts to blur together; his teammates crouch and kneel and he lifts the Cup to their lips and pours and pours and pours. There’s beer and champagne everywhere and he’s  _ soaked _ \- they all are - sweat and booze and joy oozing out of their pores. 

 

He relinquishes control of the Cup to Billy, and for a moment Sid just stands there, surrounded by his team, breaking and moving against him in waves and he’s a part of it all but it feels like he’s watching the celebration from afar. The French Canadians are huddled together, swaying and hugging, fraught with so much uncertainty but so much love. Phil and Bones and Hags and Schultzy are crowing at each other - the forgotten and discarded; Kuni, Dales, Horny, and Zats are laughing and throwing balls of tape and cans of beer at each other. 

 

In the center of everything are the kids who bolstered them all season, their Wilkes-Barre juveniles. Sid watches them dance and make their calls, as uncoordinated and uncaring as he had been seven long years ago. They’re their own little colony among the team, forged by youth and familiarity and Sid sees the future of the team in them, and his chest feels lighter than it has in years.

 

Sid looks away, looks up at G spraying everyone he can reach with champagne from his vantage point on one of the stalls. Dana’s next to him, wavering between sedately sipping his own beer and impishly passing Geno more bottles. Sid catches Geno’s eye, and opens his mouth, tilting his head back - just enough to be provocative, but not enough to be scandalous. Geno aims his latest champagne bottle at Sid’s face, and Sid closes his eyes and basks in the warm champagne spray.

 

He’s laughing and trying not to get it up his nose, eyes still closed, when he feels a familiar pair of arms wrap around him, swaying him side to side.

 

“Geno,” Sid whispers, blinking open tacky eyelashes. 

 

“Sid,” he answers, crooning low in his throat. Geno’s still smiling, hasn’t stopped since the final buzzer sounded, but there’s something else lurking in his eyes as he hugs Sid. He makes sure he has Sid’s full attention - as if Sid’s attention could be anywhere else - and deliberately lifts his chin. Sid sucks in a breath, eyes flicking between Geno’s face and the stubbly expanse of skin in front of him.

 

Geno’s chin stays up, unwavering, and Sid takes the invitation, burying his face against Geno’s neck. “G -” he sighs into sweaty, sticky, perfect skin and Geno’s arms tighten around him. He doesn’t preen, even though it’s his first instinct. There’s going to be time enough for that later.

 

They’re pulled back into the celebration raging around them a moment later, but they periodically meet each other’s gaze throughout the rest of the night and into the next morning and on the plane and when they all gather around at Mario’s for the after after-party. Sometimes Sid will lift his chin; sometimes Geno will lift his, but every time it feels so right and Sid’s chest is suffused with warmth. 

 

When they make their way to the club, the WBS juveniles leading the way onto the dance floor, their arms flailing all over the place as they practice their rituals and celebrate at the same time. 

 

“We should probably chaperone,” Sid says, eyeballing them from where he’s tucked against Geno in one of the booths. He’s not sure that he’s the best person for the job, but he remembers all too well the adults watching him and Tanger and Flower and Jordy and Geno and Talbo - all uncoordinated limbs and no sense at all of how to move them, a mishmash of their home colony styles and what they’d picked up in Pittsburgh. He remembers how they’d step in and demonstrate without being invasive and how much Sid learned without realizing that he was doing so.

 

“We show them how it’s done?” Geno asks after a moment, and Sid tilts his head back to look at him. He feels Geno’s heartbeat speed up.

 

“Yeah,” he says, even though he’s not confident that he ever really perfected his ritual; he’s ready to take his shot. Sid doesn’t hesitate when Geno pulls him onto the floor. They stand across from each other for an awkward moment before Geno stretches his neck forward and bows. Sid answers him, and they start to move together, feet pattering carefully.

 

Uncertainty courses through Sid - that for all he’s done and accomplished over his career, that this will be the thing that he fucks up, that he can’t do. That years of putting of perfecting his mating ritual will finally bite him in the ass. But it’s Geno in front of him, Geno spreading his arms and strutting and calling for  _ Sid _ , and the uncertainty melts away. He knows Geno, knows his heart and his spirit and the way he snores at night and cries at movies where the animal dies. He’s been dancing with Geno for years on the ice and in hotels and at dinners and parties and playing video games. 

 

Geno throws his head back and lets out an unearthly, unmistakable shriek. 

 

Sid responds. They dance.

  
  


**+1  Start it up and watch them go**

 

Sid picks Geno up from the airport on a Wednesday. September in Pittsburgh is still basically summer even though hockey is right around the corner, and Sid’s got shorts on and his ball cap pulled down over his eyes as he pulls into the Arrivals lane. Geno slides into the passenger seat a moment later, grinning through his exhaustion.

 

Sid grins back, shifts into gear, and signals back into traffic. “Hey G,” he says, and there’s no keeping the warmth out of his voice.

 

“Siiiiid,” Geno sighs. He slumps in the seat, but he’s still smiling. “Good to be home.” 

 

“Yeah it is.” He leans over, resting his elbow on the console, other arm draped over the wheel. Geno’s fingers tangle with his a moment later. “I missed you.”

 

“You see me two weeks ago.” Geno rolls his eyes, but it’s unbearably fond.

 

“Still too long.”

 

“Then you should stay in Moscow longer, stupid.”

 

“Maybe you should have stayed in Cole Harbour longer,” Sid counters, mostly for the sake of starting shit. Geno squeezes his hand.

 

“This why it’s good we have Pittsburgh,” he laments, but there’s no heat behind it. Sid just keep smiling as he drives.

 

He takes them back to his place. After a summer of Cup activities and visiting each other and settling into being mates, they still haven’t decided on where they’re going to make their nest. Sid argues for his house because he  _ finally _ has it exactly how he wants it. Geno says that his house is better because the yard’s bigger and he already has his  _ banya _ built. They’ve already worn the argument into familiar grooves, but Sid’s not worried about it. 

 

They’ll figure it out.

 

“My house has food,” Sid says as they pull up to his gate. “And fresh sheets on the bed,” he wheedles. “And it’s closer.”

 

“Mmm. You win this time,” Geno says and heaves himself out of the passenger seat. They split his luggage between them and carry it into the house, and Geno drops his stuff in the entrance hall. Sid wants to protest, but he wants to get his hands on his mate even more, so he lets Geno’s sticks and gear bag tumble to the floor.

 

It’s like a dam breaks, and Geno’s pressing him into the wall, wainscotting jabbing into the small of Sid’s back. He can’t find it in him to care though because he’s got his hands on Geno’s waist, under his t-shirt and pressing into the soft skin of his sides.

 

Sid tilts his head back as far at it will go with the wall in the way, and Geno presses his nose to his neck, nips gently at Sid’s skin and Sid feels his knees turn to jelly. “Bed - bedroom  _ now _ ,” he mumbles. “Wanna get you naked.” Geno bites down one last time, hard enough that it’s going to leave a mark, but releases Sid. He doesn’t wait, just strides off to Sid’s master, and Sid just breathes against the wall for a moment, heart pounding in his chest. It’s only been two weeks and he feels like he’s going to go out of his mind.  

 

Geno’s already lost his shirt and he’s almost out of his pants by the time Sid catches up. He swallows heavily. Objectively, Geno hasn’t changed that much since they parted in Moscow, but he seems bigger somehow, shoulders a little broader - his tan line a little lower. 

 

“Next time, I’m undressing you,” Sid murmurs, shucking his own t-shirt.

 

“You so impatient; I figure I’m go ahead and do,” Geno pokes his tongue out from between his teeth, and Sid croaks out a wordless, needy response and tackles him to the bed.

 

He’s still got his shorts on and Geno’s long fingers manage to pop the button, his hands sliding into the fabric of his shorts and boxer briefs and pushing frantically. Sid wriggles his hips to get the fabric down and off. He keeps getting distracted by Geno’s mouth, by the way his tongue slips against Geno’s, by the sloppy wet noises they make. He finally kicks off the last of his clothes and sinks into the sensation of skin against skin.

 

He rubs his dick against Geno’s hip, against the little bit of extra fat he always carries there. It’s one of his favorite parts, and beneath him, Geno groans, hips bucking. Sid gets a hand between them and jacks Geno slowly. They’re both so desperate that they’re not going to last, he knows, but he wants to  _ feel _ how hard G is. Sid’s thumb slips across his cockhead and Geno twitches, hands clenching down around Sid’s hips.

 

“Geno, I want -” he starts, head bowing as Geno’s fingers dig into his ass.

 

“Fuck, Sid. Please.”

 

Sid croons and moves his hand lower. He squeezes the base of Geno’s dick, then lets his fingers slip behind to press against the swollen edges of his cloaca. Geno  _ keens _ , nipping frantically at Sid’s neck. “Here?” Sid croaks, fingers sliding inside for just a moment.

 

“Yes. Want so much - feel you in me.” Geno squirms and twists, and Sid gives him just enough space to turn over. He reaches back, an awkward movement made almost graceful by desire, and parts the cheeks of his ass to bare his hole. Sid feels like the breath has been punched out of his lungs. His dick and his cloaca throb in response.

 

“ _ Shit _ , yeah. Okay.” He drapes himself over Geno’s back and can’t resist rubbing all over Geno’s cloaca. Beneath him, Geno shudders and arches back. Sid obliges, pressing in, burying his dick into Geno as he buries his face in the soft hair at the base of Geno’s neck and starts to move. “Geno -  _ fuck _ ,” Sid cries out.

 

“ _ Sid _ ,” Geno croons. “One day…”

 

Sid whines as he fucks into Geno. He bites the back of Geno’s neck and tries not to come thinking about rubbing his cloaca against Geno’s, about how one day they’re going to have an egg of their own - like he can read his thoughts, Geno clenches down, and Sid thrusts in one last time, hips flush against Geno’s ass as he comes.

 

Geno rocks back on Sid’s cock and Sid tries to gather his wits enough to shove his hand under Geno’s hips. He’s still hard and leaking, and Sid wraps his hand around Geno. He frantically fucks into SId’s fist and Sid rolls his hips, sensitive, but not yet soft. Geno sobs when he comes and goes boneless, and Sid carefully pulls out.

 

They’re a filthy mess of come and sweat and Sid’s never been happier. Geno rolls over and Sid goes with him, nestling into the crook of his arm and resting his head on Geno’s chest. He anchors one hand in Geno’s sweaty hair, fingers preening mindlessly. He feels as much as hears Geno’s satisfies burble, and croons softly as Geno’s hand tangles in Sid’s hair. 

 

“Did you really mean it?” Sid asks into the quiet. He’s not even sure Geno’s awake, but the words bubble up anyway.

 

“Mean -” Geno starts. “Of course I’m mean. We nest. I’m want babies with you.” He nibbles Sid’s hairline a little and his voice deepens. “Want to fertilize with you - rub our cloacas against each other - maybe one of us get knocked up.”

 

Sid moans a little, feels his body flush in useless arousal. “I...yeah.  _ Fuck _ , yeah, I want that too.” He buries his face into Geno’s neck. “Do - it’s...it’s not too soon, is it? We haven’t been together that long.” Most of the bonded pairs he knows has been together for years and years before they started a family.

 

“Sid, we court for years.” Geno says it like it’s a fact written in stone that everyone knows, and Sid has to take a moment to work through that.

 

“It feels like we grew up here together,” he says after a moment, the phrase echoing out of his memories. Geno laughs at him.

 

“Yes, we do. Glad you catch up.”

 

Tomorrow they’ll go to UPMC66 and skate with their team. They’ll get dinner with Flower and Tanger and shoot the shit. Once camp ends, Sid’s got a barbeque planned for everyone and a spreadsheet ready to send out so he knows who is bringing what sides.

 

He and Geno will probably bounce back and forth between their houses until one of them decides to stop being stubborn, or they agree on building a new nest for the both of them. Sid almost doesn’t care. A home, a true nest, is more than a building or a house or a colony - it’s the people you fill it with, the family that you have and create. As long as Geno’s with him, he’s already home.

  
  



End file.
